Under The Milky Way
by Dajypop
Summary: "No matter what 'appens, zese weell always be our stars."


**Title:** Under The Milky Way  
 **Author:** Daisy  
 **Fandom:** South Park  
 **Setting:** Stark's Pond  
 **Pairing:** Christophe/Kyle Broflovski  
 **Characters:** Christophe, Kyle Broflovski  
 **Genre:** Romance/Hurt/Comfort  
 **Rating:** T  
 **Chapters:** 1/1  
 **Word Count:** 760  
 **Type of Work:** One-Shot  
 **Status:** Complete  
 **Warnings:** Slash, Gay, Yaoi, Aged Up Characters, Mentions of Violence and Death  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.  
 **Summary:** "No matter what 'appens, zese weell always be our stars."

 **AN:** Wrote this when I was flip-flopping fandoms really bad. I've been hoarding it with my other stories that need typed for a while, not, and finally got the urge to sit down and finish it. This might be the last thing for tonight, I don't know yet. xD I hope you guys will enjoy!

 **Under The Milky Way** ****

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Christophe had a slew of bad habits; he smoked, had a monumental temper, dug more holes in his yard than a dog could ever hope for, he was secretive and lashed out when guarding himself, and above all, he typically refused Kyle's help when he returned from missions injured. Most of the time, he'd even go so far as to pretend he hadn't gotten hurt in the first place. Of course, his meticulous boyfriend always found a way to get it out of him and patch him up. Quietly, and mainly in his head, Christophe was glad for this, because it meant less dying of stupid, small wounds that wouldn't have done much if they didn't get infected.

The couple had taken to meeting up for long nights just north of Stark's Pond, due to Kyle's mother's adamant distrust of a filthy, handsome Frenchman on a motorcycle. As the redhead pulled his coat around himself a little tighter, he wondered if Christophe wouldn't show. Flipping his phone open, he checked for any new updates, but his texts were empty, and his outgoing calls just glared back at him; French Toast, French Toast, French Toast. That particular nickname had been Kenny's idea, a code word they would use around his parents ("You thinking about getting some French Toast, later, Kyle?"). After all, his mother had finally stopped trying to monitor his phone and internet interactions, it wasn't like she'd catch on. Even with the sad smile tugging at his lips, he finally flipped the phone closed and reached for the bag he always brought with him out here. Maybe his Frenchman's mission had run longer than he'd anticipated. Fighting the urge to call or text him one more time, the Jew forced his legs to start trudging back towards home. There was a tug in his heart, as though leaving their spot without the other was wrong, and the flip of his stomach only confirmed this. Ducking his head against a chill wind that seemed intent on keeping him in place, he heaved a great sigh as he pushed on.

At the first roar of an engine, he paused, going positively still. Shaking his head when it didn't come again, he realized his worried mind must be playing tricks on him, and his weary steps began again. When a blinding light met his dry eyes, the familiar growl of Christophe's bike accompanying it, he shielded his vision for a moment before his bag fell to the crisp, dry autumn ground. Breaking into a dead sprint, he left all care behind as he ran to the one person that made his pulse pound like this. Upon arrival at the older male's side, he threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arms around him, peppering his face with kisses.

Little more than a grunt escaped the tense body holding the ecstatic Jew close, each kiss leeching the tightness from his muscles. It was then that he felt the sticky warmth of blood seeping through the other's shirt, and everything about him changed like a flipped switch. His hands fluttered about his lover's wounded stomach like birds afraid to land, and when the other chuckled at him, wincing as he placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it, he shook his head.

"Et es just a scratch, Chaton, no need to-"

"Bull _shit_ , a scratch. You're lucky I started bringing a first aid kit." Right there under the watchful eye of the moon, Kyle made to stitch his lover's belly up, quietly mourning the look of those perfect muscles. "What happened?" He finally questioned, head tilting as he bit the thread.

"I would razer not poison our time togezar weez ze gory details." Came the soft reply as the elder lifted himself from the motorcycle and pulled his lover into a warm embrace. Placing a soul-searing, distracing kiss on the younger's lips, he smiled, slightly pained, "Let us lay beneaz ze stars, per'aps I weell tell jou of ze meession. No matter what 'appens out zere, zese will always be our stars."

The walk to their usual star-gazing spot was slow, measured so that Chrisophe could make it there in one piece. Carefully laying the elder out, Kyle soon pressed into his side, head pillowed on his chest, above his heart. Beating slow and calm, he listened quietly as it mellowed almost to a stop, soft snores coming from the mercenary, now that he felt safe. Kyle supposed the details could wait until breakfast, settling in for a nap, as well.

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 **AN:** I really enjoy writing sad fluff, lately, possibly too much, I think. I hope you guys had fun with this, I know I did. ; u;


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